Month: November 2013

When I say thanks… I forget my troubles Or at least put them in perspective When I say thanks… I remember my blessings So many I wouldn’t notice otherwise When I say thanks… I find complaint impossible And comfort inevitable When I say thanks… I find a better me And remember a higher purpose When I say thanks… I admit the best of me is not my fault And accept the worst of me is not His fault When I say thanks… I mean I am sorry I forget His goodness And glad He forgets my wickedness When I say thanks… I mean thank you, Lord… for Everything! When I Say Thanks | A Poem of Thanksgiving ...

I have to tell you. Lately, I have felt dumber than a Democrat. The trouble started when people began using the acronym ICYMI. I could not figure out for the life of me what that crazy collection of letters stood for. I was, however, determined to use my considerable deductive reasoning skills to crack the code. Surely, I would see it in context enough times on Facebook, Twitter and text to ascertain the meaning of this elusive and sinister collection of letters. Alas, I have been unable to do so. Despite running into the troublesome eye sore on a daily basis, I could not make the letters make sense. Blame it on the four traumatic concussions I have suffered in my lifetime, one of which I can still show you the jagged scar across my head, where 28 stitches were required to keep my brain from showing. Blame it on early signs of Dementia. Blame it on old-school literacy. Blame it on age. Blame it on Reno. Heck, blame whomever you will. This morning, I relented and turned to the all-seeing, all-knowing Google geeks. Yeah, I googled it. Imagine the shame, the sense of utter failure when I saw the simple and oh-so-obvious answer. Instead of feeling like Alan Turing, cracking the Nazis’ codes, I felt like I just cheated on a first grade spelling quiz. I had to...

I found him among my souvenirs A gift from an elderly woman– she was stately in her manner, refined– to her pastor Given in that long ago Place and time When I was more than I am now And thought less of it Not 8″ tall, his head is bald A faraway gaze in his eye As if he just remembered something And now longed for it Concern plastered on his plaster face His left hand grips the pulpit To help him stand firm Or perhaps for fear he might lose it to some unseen force Held reverently In his right hand A Bible Opened to some passage with which he has wrestled And now struggles To give it just treatment In its exposition I have him now Displayed on a bookcase built with my own hands Among the books I have not lost Or given away To remind me To make me sad for those days long gone To make me glad they ever were To give me comfort because they remain Among my souvenirs ...